CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
A BRIEF GLOSSARY OF THE DARK HORSE CLANS
PROLOGUE
The meara raised his head, his shapely ears pricked forward, and he turned his nose into the night wind. His nostrils flared wide at the chilled smells on the breeze. The winter camp of the clan lay close by in its sheltering basin between two tall, easy hills. Its heavy odours of leather, smoke, dogs, and humans were clear in every detail to the sensitive nose of the stallion. The humans peacefully slept, except for the outriders who rode guard duty around the scattered herds and the large cluster of tents, pens, small outbuildings, and the chieftain’s timbered hall that marked the treld, or winter camp. The outrider near the meara’s herd seemed to be dozing, too, for his head drooped over his chest and his horse stood relaxed.
The big stallion snorted irritably, his sides rippling like molten bronze from a tension he could not identify.
He had been chosen to be the meara, or king stallion, not only for his conformation, beauty, and speed, but also because of his fierce desire to protect his mares. Some unidentified sense in his mind whispered something was wrong. He could not understand what it was yet, and that disturbed him enough to set him trotting up a gentle slope and away from the treld to a spot from which he could survey the meadows.
Up on a rise, he lifted his head to the cold wind. Spring had come in name only, and the frost hung thick in the air. On the eastern horizon, a pale gold band of light heralded the coming day. The breeze stirred again, riffling the meara’s heavy mane.
He breathed deeply of the biting cold and caught a taste of something new on the edge of the wind. There was a hint of softness, a faint wisp of warmth that hadn’t been there before. The wind had swung around from the south, and its swirling tide bore the spicy scent of the Turic deserts far beyond the Altai River and the Ruad el Brashir grasslands. The stallion felt the coming change in the weather as surely as the cold that tingled in his nostrils.
But he realized the wind was not the object of his unease. Wind was a natural part of his existence; something else out there in the night was not. He inhaled again, and this time he caught another scent. It was faint and south of the treld, but it was unmistakable now: horses, many of them, and all strangers. A low sound rumbled deep in his chest.
His neck arched like a strung bow, he pranced along the edge of the meadow where his herd grazed to another hilltop south of the camp. He stopped there, for the scent was stronger and coming closer. He could smell other things, too: leather, metal, and the heavy scent of humans. Not clanspeople. These men smelled different, spicy like the desert.
The meara could hear them now. The strange horses’ pace abruptly broke into a gallop, and their hoofbeats pounded closer. In the dawning light, the stallion saw the horses rise over a distant slope in a long line and charge down the incline toward the sleeping treld. The soft light gleamed on the blades of many swords and on the polished tips of spears.
Wheeling, the meara bellowed a warning to his mares. He galloped back toward his herd while the strange horses thundered over the frozen grass. Somewhere in the camp, a guard shouted. Then another. A horn blew a frantic high note. More cries rang in the chilled dawn air, and men began to appear among the tents.
All the horses in the meadows were alert now, their heads raised to watch the unknown horsemen approach. The newcomers gave a great shout as their mounts reached the first tents on the southern end of the camp. Suddenly there were screams, and the wind became tainted with the smell of blood. The horses grew frightened. The meara alone paid no heed. His only thought was for his herd. Like a tornado he roared across the pasture, bellowing and snapping at the mares to get them moving.
They needed little urging. Neighing with fear, they cantered ahead of their king, away from the blood and the panic and toward the open grassland. No outrider tried to stop them, for the guards were galloping frantically back toward the treld.
Another horn blast cut across the gathering din of shouts, screams, and the clash of weapons. The meara hesitated, stirred by a faint memory from his younger years when he had been trained for battle. The song of the chieftain’s horn had once been an important signal to his mind. His steps slowed, and he turned once to look back. In the brightening day he saw the treld consumed in chaos. The strangers were everywhere, their swords rising and falling among the struggling clanspeople. Women and children scattered everywhere, and the people fought fiercely to defend their homes. Already smoke and flames rose from the chieftain’s hall.
The stallion trumpeted a challenge. He waited for the chieftain’s horn to call again, unaware that the horn lay broken in the bleeding hand of the dying chief. The wait became unbearable, the fear for his mares too great. The stallion turned away from the killing and galloped after the fleeing horses, driving them toward safety on the open sweeps of the Ramtharin Plains.
CHAPTER ONE
The wind blew from the south for three days, roaring with the first fanfare of spring across the frozen plains. It was a tossing, tumbling, tumultuous wind, a great warm ocean of air that tossed the trees, swirled the winter-cured grass, and swept in an irresistible current over the far-flung hills. Its warmth erased the last of the snow and filled the valleys with the rippling sheen of water.
In the winter trelds of the eleven clans of Valorian, the clanspeople shook out their rugs and bedding, aired their tents, and rejoiced in the change of the seasons. The clans’ horses lifted their muzzles to the rushing wind and filled their nostrils with the warm, dry breath of the deserts far to the south. The mares waited patiently, knowing the Birthing was coming soon, but the youngsters kicked up their heels to race the wild wind.
In the brilliant blue sky above the high plateau of Moy Tura, one horse did more than lift her heels to the wind. A Hunnuli mare, as black as obsidian, raced to the abrupt edge of the highland and launched herself into the skirts of the wind. For a moment she tucked her front legs and dropped toward the rocky base several hundred feet below. Her rider, a young woman with hair as black as her Hunnuli’s tail, gave a sharp cry of elation; then the horse spread her wings and rose high into the currents.
Wheeling, soaring, hearts high with release, horse and rider flew with the spring wind in the bright, clear light of the morning sun. They headed south on the tides of the air for several hours, until the mare was drenched in sweat and the rugged Himachal Mountains rose like a fortress wall to their right. Southward, where the wind continued to roar, the rolling grasslands faded away into the grey-blue horizon.
The young woman, Kelene, realized it was time to return home, but for a while longer she stared south into the wind. To the south lay Dangari Treld and the Isin River, and farther still lay the winter treld of the Khulinin Clan, the home of her parents, Lord Athlone and Lady Gabria.
Kelene shrugged her shoulders somewhat irritably. She had never imagined three or four years ago that she would move so far from home and miss her parents so deeply. As a girl she had avoided her parents’ love and concern, much as a stubborn child would refuse a sour draught. It wasn’t until she married and moved two hundred leagues away to Moy Tura that she realized how much of her mother and father’s time and wisdom she
missed.
“It would be nice,” she said, unaware that she had spoken her wistful thought aloud.
The Hunnuli mare, a horse descended from an ancient and revered breed, cocked her ears back. What would be nice? she asked in the silent, telepathic communication that linked all Hunnuli to their riders.
Kelene started out of her reverie and laughed at her own musings. “To see my parents again. It has been so long; I was just thinking how nice it would be to keep flying south and surprise them with a visit.”
The mare, Demira, snorted. That would be a surprise. Especially to Rafnir. He’s expecting you to help with the wells this afternoon.
The reminder brought a grimace to Kelene’s tanned face. Unexpectedly the delight in the morning dwindled, and she muttered between her teeth, “I am getting just a little tired of that ruin.”
As if the words had opened a dam, her frustrations welled up uncontrollably, like gall in her throat. Kelene shook her head fiercely, trying to deny them. What did she have to be angry about? She had the most wonderful horse in the world, a winged mare who could fly her to any place she chose to go. She had a husband who adored her, parents who loved her, and a rare and gifted talent to heal that made her one of the most respected women in the clans. The weather was glorious, spring was on the way, and this flying ride was everything she had ever dreamed. So why, Kelene asked herself, why do I feel so dissatisfied?
She pondered that question while Demira winged her way home on the northern track of the wind. Truth to tell, Kelene decided, her frustration hadn’t been a sudden thing brought on by the thought of her parents or the reminder of unpleasant work. It had been building, layer by thin, brittle layer, for quite some time, and that bothered her.
After all, she knew frustration and setbacks all too well. As a girl she had been crippled and wilful, afraid of her own power and too stubborn to ask for help. Then three years ago during the clans’ annual summer gathering, an old evil escaped and a virulent plague struck the clanspeople. In a desperate attempt to help, Kelene, her brother Savaron, his friend Rafnir, and several other magic-wielders journeyed with the sorcerer, Sayyed, to the forbidden ruins of Moy Tura to look for old healing records that could help save the clans.
Through the midst of the monumental tragedy, Kelene grew to become a competent, caring woman. She learned to accept her strengths and weaknesses and to use her gift of empathy and magic to her utmost. With Rafnir’s help, she gave wings to Demira; she befriended the Korg, the sorcerer in the shape of a stone lion who guarded Moy Tura; and she learned to use the healing stones that helped cure her dying people.
When the dead were buried and clan life began to return to some semblance of normal, Kelene and Rafnir took her parents to Moy Tura and made a startling proposal: they wanted to rebuild the city. Kelene still remembered the exhilarating excitement and anticipation of their hopes and dreams. It would be a monumental task, but they had been empowered by their own optimism and newfound maturity.
That had been three years ago.
Demira’s light thought teasingly interrupted her reverie. Do you mean that ruin?
Kelene glanced down and saw they had already reached the huge plateau that bore the ruins of Moy Tura on its flat crown. “Don’t land yet,” she said.
Obligingly the mare stretched out her wings to catch a rising draft and lazily circled the city.
Kelene sighed. From this bird’s-eye view there certainly wasn’t much to see. There wasn’t much to see from the ground, either, even after three years of unending work. Moy Tura had proved to be a tougher problem to crack than either she or Rafnir had imagined.
At one time Moy Tura had been the jewel of the clans’ realm and the centre of wisdom and learning.
Magic-wielders, those people descended from the hero-warrior Valorian and born with the talent to wield the unseen, gods-given power of magic, built the city.
But over the years the clans grew fearful and suspicious of the sorcerers’ powers. In one bloody, violent summer, the clanspeople turned against their magic-wielders and slaughtered every one they could find. A few fled into hiding, but Moy Tura was razed to the ground and magic was forbidden on pain of death. So it had remained for over two hundred years.
Until Mother came along, Kelene thought with a sudden grin. She still wasn’t certain how Lady Gabria had done it. Gabria had faced incredible odds, including the massacre of her entire clan and the opposition of a clan chieftain turned sorcerer, and somehow returned magic to clan acceptance. It was her determination, strength, and courage that made it possible for Kelene to be where she was.
“But where am I now?” Kelene asked the sky above.
I believe you are with me above Moy Tura, Demira answered for the cloudless sky. When Kelene didn’t respond to her teasing humour, the mare cast a quick look back. You are certainly pensive today.
Kelene’s hands tightened on the leather flying harness Rafnir had made for her. It was the only tack the Hunnuli wore. “This morning was fun, Demira. I needed it.”
But it has not helped.
Kelene snorted in disgust. “Moy Tura is still nothing more than a heap of rubble. For every building we clear out or rebuild, there are a hundred more to do. We can’t get enough help. No one wants to leave their comfortable clan to come live in some cold, draughty, haunted pile of rock and, since the plague, there aren’t even enough magic-wielders to go around the clans, let alone resettle Moy Tura. The clan chiefs won’t support us. And where in Amara’s name are the city wells? The Korg told us there were cisterns, but he couldn’t remember where. Why can’t we find them?”
Kelene stumbled to a startled silence. She hadn’t meant to explode with such an outburst; it just came pouring out, probably loosened by the first taste of spring after a long winter’s drudgery.
Actually you have accomplished a great deal, Demira reminded her in a cool, matter-of-fact manner. You learned the craft of healing, you are an accomplished sorceress, and you are the only clanswoman to do an inside loop.
Kelene laughed at that. The “inside loop” was a trick she and Demira had accomplished — once. It had scared the wits out of them and sent Rafnir into fits of rage at their foolhardiness. He had promptly constructed the flying harness to hold Kelene on Demira’s back and forbade them from flying without it. Kelene had to admit it proved very useful.
“Looking at it that way, you’re right,” Kelene conceded.
But Demira knew her rider’s every nuance of speech and character. It is not just the city that bothers you, is it? You have been there only three years. You knew it would not grow overnight.
“No,” said Kelene, her voice flat. “It is not just the city.” She couldn’t go on. There was one fear left she could not put voice to, one emptiness inside her that ached with a cold dread and made every other setback more difficult to face. After all, what good was building a home if there were no children to fill it? She had not said anything to Rafnir about her inability to bear babes, nor he to her, but she felt his disappointment and concern as poignantly as her own.
Perhaps that was why she was struck with such a desire to see Lady Gabria again. Her mother would provide a loving, sympathetic ear for her worries, and maybe she could suggest something Kelene had overlooked. Unfortunately, there was too much to do at Moy Tura to even consider a journey to Khulinin Treld.
The young woman sighed again. The clans would be gathering at the Tir Samod in three months’ time. Maybe Rafnir would agree to go this year. They needed various tools, herbs, and foodstuffs even magic couldn’t supply, and they could use the time to talk to other magic-wielders. Surely there were a few who would be willing to give Moy Tura a helping hand. Kelene could then talk to her mother and share her anxieties. Until that time she would have to be patient. As Demira pointed out, neither cities nor babies grew overnight.
Kelene was about to ask Demira to land when the Hunnuli turned her head to the south. Someone is coming, she announced.
Kelene’s spir
its rose a little. It was always pleasant to see someone new. “Who?” she asked.
In reply the mare veered away from the ruins and followed the pale track of the old southern road where it cut across the top of the plateau. At the edge of the highland the trail dropped over to wend its way down to the lower grasslands. He is there, on the lower trail. Coming fast.
Kelene saw him then, a rider on a black horse cantering up to the foot of the plateau. Her heart caught a beat when she recognized the colour of his clan cloak. Every clan had its own individual colour to identify its members, a colour that was always dyed into the comfortable, versatile cloaks the people wore. This rider, who was obviously heading for Moy Tura, wore the golden yellow of the Khulinin.
At Kelene’s request, Demira landed at the top of the trail and waited for the rider to climb the plateau. Kelene tried not to fidget, yet she couldn’t help straining to look over the edge. Her parents did not send messengers often, only when the news was important. She mused, too, over the coincidence of her wish to visit her parents and the arrival of their messenger on the same morning.
The rider came at last, his Hunnuli winded and sweating. He raised his head at Kelene’s greeting and grinned a very tired and dusty reply. The stallion climbed the last few feet of the incline, topped the trail, and came to a grateful halt beside Demira.
“Kelene! I thought I saw a big black vulture hovering over that dead ruin.” The rider’s weathered face crinkled around his green eyes.
Demira snorted indignantly.
“Veneg,” Kelene addressed the Hunnuli stallion. “How do you put up with him?”
He is rude only to people he likes. Everyone else he ignores, Veneg replied with tired good nature.
The young woman laughed. “Gaalney, he knows you too well.” She paused, taking in for the first time the man’s exhausted pallor, his dirty clothes, and the nearly empty travel packs on the Hunnuli’s back. These two had travelled long and hard. “Are my—” she began to say.
Gaalney rushed to assure her. “Lord Athlone and Lady Gabria are fine and send their greetings. My message is ill news, but it is for Sayyed and Rafnir, as well as for you.”
Winged Magic Page 1